


Can't Save Them All, And It Don't Get Easier

by bosspigeon



Series: Miss 101 [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mentions of Slavery, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Trauma, i can't write irish accents but moriarty's is really fake and bad so it works out, i love gob and nova and they deserve so much better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: The Lone Wanderer isn't quite fresh out of the Vault, but she's still got a lot to learn about the kind of things she can expect to see. The Wasteland isn't kind.





	

There’s a wasteland’s worth of grime caked on her boots when she kicks open the saloon door. Dogmeat’s resting his weary paws at the common house, curled up on the bed in the corner Megaton’s residents have come to accept is Hers and guarding the ratty duffel full of weapons, ammo, and odds and ends the skinny wanderer’s been lugging for the last two weeks or so. Her back aches, her feet throb, she’s sunburnt and parched, and she’d like nothing more than to drink herself stupid and having Gob drag her to the common house to sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

Nova offers a little smile when she slumps over at the bar, leaning beside her and gesturing to the ghoul for two drinks. “Hey there, gorgeous, come here often?” the redhead teases gently.

Adrian raises her eyes in faint acknowledgement, but she’s too tired to really respond. Nova, thank god, doesn’t pry. Just slips one of the bottles Gob brings over between her dirt-caked hands. The vault dweller mumbles a soft thanks, pops the cap and pockets it. 

“Haven't seen you around in a hot minute,” Nova says with a little pout once she's taken a hearty swig of warm, flat beer. “Too busy to come see me?”

“Yeah,” Adrian grunts, raking back her hair. It's lank and stringy, unwashed, feels greasy between her fingers, but she's too tired to worry about how she looks now.

“You alright there, smoothskin?” Gob asks, hardly more than a whisper as he wipes down a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag. He sets down both glass and cloth and leans on the bar. He's gotten more comfortable with her since she came to town, more friendly. Doesn't flinch when she stands up too fast, looks less like a frightened animal ready to cower when she asks for a drink. He even gives her a bit of a discount when Moriarty’s not around, and he's always got a couple stimpacks tucked away for her when he knows she's heading out into the wastes.

“No,” she admits, soft and weak, throat feeling thick all of a sudden. She tosses back another gulp of beer. She needs something stronger.

“Easy there, honey,” Nova chides her, slipping onto the stool beside her and curling a hand over hers. “Take it slow. Gobbie, could you fetch our gal another one?”

“You got it, Nova,” the ghoul says with clearly forced enthusiasm. He snags another beer from under the counter, takes the cap off with his teeth and drops it next to the register. Adrian watches him with a dull sort of half-focus.

“Did something happen out there?” Nova asks softly, squeezing Adrian’s stooped shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”

The former vault dweller hesitates, rubs a grimy hand over an equally grimy face and sighs, rough and shaky. “I, uh. Ran into some slavers outside the ruins downtown. A small camp, not too many. Had a few slaves.” She takes a shuddering breath, finishes her first beer and reaches for the second, downs nearly half in one gulp before she's ready to continue. 

“Sniped off the guards easy enough before they could raise the alarm. I… I got the slaves loose and we were making a break for it when I heard the-- the fucking  _ beeping _ . Turns out, one of ‘em already had one of those fucking… goddamned bomb collars. I couldn't… I couldn't disarm it in time, it'd already been primed by the one fucking bastard I missed.” She grinds the heels of her hands into her eye sockets when she feels them start to burn with tears. “That kid couldn't have been older than fourteen…” Before she can choke it back, she sobs, just once, then sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “ _ Fuck _ !”

“Oh, honey,” Nova says softly, with the dull horror Adrian’s come to recognize. It's the sort of resigned ‘ _ that's the sort of thing that happens out there _ ’ tone. The tone of someone desensitized to the horrors of everyday life in the wasteland by repeated exposure. She's not sure if she craves the day she reaches that point, or fears it. She's been out of the vault for nearly two months and she still feels so… raw.

“Sounds like you did the best you could,” Gob says roughly. “Got the rest of ‘em get out alright?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, ducking her head and hunching her shoulders. “Dropped ‘em off in Rivet City. Few of ‘em said they'd be making their way here with the next caravan that comes through.”

“Well that's good, isn't it?” Nova says, affecting a cheerful smile.

Adrian stares at a stain on the counter, tries not to think about the look of terror, and then pitiful acceptance on that too-young face in the seconds before--

She shakes her head roughly, takes another long pull from her bottle. “Yeah,” she finally says.

“Can't save ‘em all,” Gob tells her, rustling around for a reasonably clean glass and a bottle of whiskey. He pours her a shot and slides it over, and she finishes the second beer before she grabs the glass and knocks it back. “Least most of them got somewhere safe.”

She taps the counter and he pours her another.

She feels a hundred years old as she stares into the amber contents of her glass. There's an ache in her spine she can't seem to shake, a heaviness in her bones that just feels more and more stifling as the days go by. She wonders if this is how they all feel, if they've just lived with it so long it's less of a burden and more a fact of life. She almost wishes she'd stayed in the Vault.

Nova’s flitted off to seek out a potential customer and Adrian’s moving from the edge of tipsy to properly drunk when Moriarty comes in. She knows the swagger of his footsteps by now, the way his steel-toed boots clunk against the rusted floors.

His voice grates on her ears the moment she speaks, even worse than it does when she's sober. “Gob, what the fuck are ya standin’ around for?” he shouts over the dull hum of activity.

Gob leaps to attention and starts wiping down the counter feverishly, and she almost wants to tell him not to worry about it, Moriarty could stuff it, he's getting more caps out of her by keeping the whiskey coming than he is cleaning the uncleanable.

But it's none of her business. She nurses the last glass he poured before Fuckface McGee swanned in and retreats into herself for a bit. She pointedly ignores any thoughts aside from how much she thinks she'll get from Moira for her pile of scrap, what she'll get from the Brass Lantern as her hangover breakfast in the morning, and whether or not the bigass blister on her heel is going to pop anytime soon.

She's floating contentedly through her own head, eyes focused on nothing when something heavy knocks into the counter so hard the whole thing shakes. “The fuck?” She hisses, coming back to reality in the span of a few slowed-down seconds.

“Shit, I-I’m sorry,” Gob yelps, and there's an uneven, rapidly purpling splotch on the ragged flesh of his jaw. She doesn't realize until he offers her his dingy rag that there's whiskey sloshed down the front of her vault suit.

“Oh fff, don't worry ‘bout it,” she scoffs, but Gob doesn't hear her, because Moriarty is standing over him again, smirking.

“You been dippin’ into the good stuff, Gob?” he asks with a menacing smile when he spots the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. She hadn't noticed before, but the label's in slightly nicer shape than the usual stuff. Bless Gob’s irradiated heart.

“Sh-she's paid for most of it,” Gob stammers, leaning back against the counter and cowering. The hairs on the back of Adrian’s neck stand up like Dogmeat’s hackles when he spots a mole rat.

“Oh, has she now?  _ Only _ most of it?” Moriarty is doing that unpleasant singsong he has a habit of adopting when he's feeling particularly malicious.

“I'll pay it back,” Gob tells him frantically. “I’ll… I’ll work a triple shift. I’ll--”

Before Moriarty can open his big ugly mouth again, Adrian looks up, and says, loud and clear, “Hey, lay the fuck off, why don't ya?”

Gob’s eyes turn to her, wide and startled, and Moriarty’s follow. There's a mean little smile playing around his mouth. “You've got some brass ones, don't ya, lass?” He coos. He saunters up to the bar and leans in, gets right in her face. She scowls, resists the urge to close the distance and bite the fuck out of him. “Just who the hell d’ya think you are talking to me like that in my own place of business?”

Gob takes the out she's given and skitters out of the way, disappearing into the bathroom with a bucket and mop. Adrian rests her elbow on the counter and puts her chin in one hand. “I think,” she says, slow and steady, gaze focusing to a laser point between his cold blue eyes in spite of the alcohol swimming through her bloodstream, “that I'm just one of many who's sick of your shitty personality and fake-ass accent.”

Moriarty throws his head back and laughs, loud and grating enough to have a dull throb starting up in her temples. “Well, aren't you cute! Little girlie gets herself a gun and suddenly she's hot shit, is that it?” He untucks the 10 millimeter from his belt and sets it down on the counter, leering. “I've got one too, lass.”

“Bet mine’s bigger,” she retorts, pushing herself to her feet. Feels the weight of her .44 on her hip, next to the battered old power fist hanging by a length of leather cord.

He laughs again, sneers down at her. “Something’s got your dander up tonight, aye, lass?” he taunts, hand still on his gun. He's watching her every move, wily even as he goads her. Like he wants her to start something. Like he’s been itching since she blew into Megaton fresh out of the Vault and pumped him for information.

She's not looking for a fight. She's seen enough bloodshed to last her a good while, has no desire to ruin the good thing she's got in Megaton by getting into it with someone like Moriarty. But she's not willing to back down either, and she’s too drunk to question why.

“What is it, little girl?” he sneers, “Still sore you ain't found your daddy yet?”

She clenches her fist. Grits her teeth. Doesn't answer. He sees he's struck a nerve, but not quite the one he's looking for.

“Is it ‘cause I was bein’ mean to your little friend Gobbie?” He croons, fluttering his eyelashes in some ugly mockery of coyness.

Her lips pull back in a snarl and she's not quite sure why, but Moriarty’s eyes light up. 

“That's it, isn't it?” he practically giggles, “ Aww, what, does the wee thing have a bit of a crush on the walkin’ corpse?”

She feels her cheeks burn, and she wants to blame it on the booze. But she pushes past it, glares at him with all her ire, squares herself up to look bigger than her meager five feet and some change. “He's my friend,” she mumbles, head filling with a reddish haze. “An… an’ you treat him like dirt. He's… he's a better person than you'll ever be and you fucking know it.”

He smiles, amused, condescending, shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “Now, now, lass, Gobbie over there? He's barely even a person.”

“Shut up,” she growls, rough and dirty nails digging furrows into the new calluses on her palms.

But he doesn't. He keeps going like he’s having the time of his life. “He's a rotten zombie, a  _ freak _ . He's lucky I let him ugly up my place of business for such a triflin’ fee!”

“ _ Shut. Up. _ ” Her ears are burning, stomach in knots. But he keeps going.

He grins at her, all teeth, leans in so close she can feel his hot breath on her face. “I  _ own _ that rotten lump of flesh, sweetheart, and I'll treat my  _ property _ however I damn well please.”

Things sort of blur together then, like she’s not quite there. She feels her hand slipping into the warm pocket of leather padding and hydraulics dangling heavily from her belt. Her fingers clench and steam gauges hiss. The world slows down, she sees Moriarty reaching for the gun on the bar.

In the back of her head, she sees a boy drop to his knees and close his eyes, hands clasped as if in prayer. Hears a countdown in harsh beeps and then--

Fist cocked. Release. A hot spray of red paints her snarling face. Something hard and sharp grazes her cheekbone. Someone screams. More steam makes her hand feel slick and sweaty as the dented plate pulls back to its resting state.

It's dead silent. There's a body on the floor. Scuffed leather and white hair, a bloody cave-in where a face used to be. Gun in hand. There's broken teeth at her feet and her face is dripping crimson on her boots. Her power fist is red with something other than just rust.

“ _ Holy shit _ .”

It's a whisper from the bathroom, bulging milky eyes peering around the curtain. They meet hers for a split second, then disappear.

It’s like she's walking underwater when she turns around. Everything is muffled, voices, the thin stream of staticky music drifting from the radio, her head feels like it's full of cotton and Ella Fitzgerald, crooning about rainfall.

She walks up the ramp in a daze, pushes open the common house door. Dogmeat bounces off the bed and circles her legs while she gathers up her loot with a robotic efficiency. If there are other people there, she doesn't notice, and either they don't notice her, or just don't feel like engaging a scrawny girl covered in blood.

No one comes after her when she steps past the gates. The protectron out front gives its standard greeting that she ignores.

She hits the river just beyond Springvale before she stops walking, makes camp in a burnt-out, half-collapsed shed. Dogmeat makes a few circuits around the perimeter while she strips off her vault suit and pops a couple of Rad-X before wading into the water to give it, and herself, a good scrub-down. She changes into fresh(ish) clothes while she hangs the suit up to dry, then gets a fire going in spite of the light peeking over the horizon already.

Dogmeat returns to her side with a fat dead lizard hanging from his teeth, tail wagging. She pops a can of Cram for him while she guts and skins it, puts it on a spit. She eats to the sound of Dogmeat slurping at the inside of the can, and  lays down on her patched bedroll. She stares up at the pink-tinged sky through the gaping hole in the shelter’s roof, using her pack of weapons and scrap as a pillow, and slowly, but steadily, dozes off.

She wonders, vaguely, if Gob and Nova will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> just a tidbit of something i've had in my drafts for a bit and i'd like to get out there. i really like my fallout characters, and i'm pretty fond of writing things that aren't directly story-related and mostly give insight into what kind of people my characters are? hope you enjoy!


End file.
